


Cartonnage

by Kingbird



Series: Threads of Fate [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canonical Character Death, Character Undeath, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingbird/pseuds/Kingbird
Summary: As he comes into the light, he realizes the casket’s top is transparent, that cold radiates off of it. That there is a face, twisted and anguished beneath inches of ice, even now in death. Kael’thas stops in his tracks, and the fear in his stomach hardens into grief.This, too, is Sylvanas Windrunner.Sylvanas leads Kael'thas down to the catacombs of Lordaeron for one purpose alone. And Kael'thas? Kael is looking for answers.
Series: Threads of Fate [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1976062
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You are all almost caught up to where I am in my writing now. This chunk of the story took a bit to get through, mostly because this is one of my lore weak points in terms of what order things happened in. As it is, let's be gentle and handwave any timeline discrepancies as a result of.......... well, whatever caused Quel'thalas to stay standing.
> 
> There is one (1) OC. He goes by Scarlet, which is a bit on the nose with his last name. he doesn't have a large role other than to clean up the place a bit and make Kael feel guilty.
> 
> anyways, since US politics are a usual trash fire, I thought I'd treat you all to another chapter as a distraction. Enjoy!

The deeper into Lordaeron they go, the quieter it gets. They passed what was once the old throne room, and then downstairs into catacombs and sewers. Kael can feel his spell struggling to keep up with the smells of death and decay. Sylvanas hasn’t spoken much since their exchange earlier, walking a few steps ahead. Kael’thas, for once, can’t figure out what to say, or how to break the silence. He just follows her, fidgeting with the ring, and looking around. 

There’s little lighting, though Kael’thas’s bright eyes hardly need anything. It’s just the increasingly brighter glow of the also increasingly lurid green waters and the light that Sylvanas herself produces. Earlier, in the daylight, the banshee had appeared to be a shadow. Now, in the gloom of the tombs, he realizes she’s got the same ethereal cast as the ghosts from earlier did, just dimmed. 

She walks along the ground but forgoes any attempt at pretending she has a physical mass to her on stairs, drifting down them, and Kael does his best now to keep back questions and concerns that he has for her. As they continue, she starts to look back at him slightly, something like anger flickering in her ruby eyes. 

At last, her patience is the first to give. As they come to the end of a flight of stairs, the carving and stonework completely vanishes, left only with natural stone walls from some ancient cavern system. It widens out before them, perpetual darkness that not even Kael’s magically enhanced sight can pierce. 

Now, Sylvanas turns, leaving him still a few steps away from the landing, and looks at him with a derisive, angry expression. “So you just walk in here, and follow me down through Lordaeron without a second thought, hm?” She asks her voice echoing all the more in the yawning cavern. 

Kael’thas purses his lips in response, his brows drawing forwards. He can tell she thinks he’s being stupid. Maybe he is. “I’ve followed you into far more foolish escapades before,” He counters, “Than some human graves. Why did you bring me down here, Sylvanas?”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t to kill you where your new pet demons can’t reach?” She snaps back, gesturing angrily with a sharp-clawed hand. 

Kael’thas resists the urge to breathe out through his nose with frustration. He is tired, his limbs heavy, feet aching. He didn’t sleep well before Northrend and then his night’s rest before departing back to Azeroth hadn’t exactly been restful either. He’d fought a Lich King and stupid humans and ancient insectoid monsters and now demons. But he gets the distinct feeling that if he loses his temper, it’s going to end poorly for him. 

He takes a deep breath, “You could,” he says, “But I trust that you will not. I am here to help you, and I can’t do that if I am dead.” That was a reasonable argument, right? “And, as I said earlier, you are my friend.” 

Sylvanas doesn’t seem overly pleased with that response, but she doesn’t try to kill him at least, stepping back and turning to continue into the darkness. Kael’thas can’t help the resentment that surges up at the lack of an answer but follows her anyway. He has no idea what to say or what to ask, ‘what happened?’ Seems extremely broad and the answer is a little obvious from several perspectives. Sylvanas has always hated broad questions, she has no patience for the ignorant and Kael is, at this moment, very aware of his own ignorance. Even if, in this case, he feels she’s equally in the dark. And also not asking questions. 

Finally, the banshee stops. She waves her hand, and suddenly Lich-fires flicker to life on the walls, inscribed and carved into the very walls and floor. Kael’thas sees the floor gleam, wet and dark with blood now, and his stomach twists. Maybe he is down here to die. 

But Sylvanas says nothing, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move. He reads tension in the way her powerful shoulders have drawn up, clawed hands fisted at her sides. He waits a moment to see if she will speak to him and then steps up a little closer as the lights continue to wind their way deeper into the caves. At last, they stop. Kael can see in the distance that the eerie cerulean color as rim lit some shape in the very back of the cavern, surrounded by unholy inscriptions. Misty blue light curls from the shapes and spells and Kael now finds himself following the branches and lines of each section. 

There are words of containment, control, pain. Of preservation and change. Things he doesn’t recognize, ancient runes that would baffle even the eldest of their convocation if they still lived. And they all come to a close on the oblong box in the center of the cavern below, which itself is lined with dire curses and repercussions for those that would disturb it. 

Kael’thas finds himself walking forwards, despite himself, past Sylvanas. He doesn’t dare turn to see the look on her face. She radiates power and fury, the shadows teeming and moving around her, and in all honesty, it frightens him. He’s not entirely certain it would be a fight he could win in this place. 

As he comes into the light, he realizes the container’s top is transparent, that cold radiates off of it. That there is a face, twisted and anguished beneath inches of ice, even now in death. Kael’thas stops in his tracks, and the fear in his stomach hardens into grief. 

This, too, is Sylvanas Windrunner. Left in this shadowy place in the presence of so much unholy magic, he can already see changes in the body despite all the spells to preserve it. Her eyes are still open, unseeing, her expression one of pain and despair. All he can do is stare for long moments, in the silence of the cavern, with only his own heart ringing in his ears. This is her body, kept down here, below Sylvanas’s feet, locked away so that she cannot reach it by her former masters. 

“Why?” He finally asks, the vaguest question of all, and he expects to be screamed at over it. But still, he turns, confusion written across his own fair face. “Why did they keep this down here?” 

Sylvanas looks at him, her eyes burning. She looks even less elven than a moment ago like her spirit is roiling away into the shadows themselves, the eerie violet glow of necromancy casting its own lights across the cavern. Her gaze bores into his, but Kael’thas can meet it now because his chest aches. His chest aches for the answer he is already coming to understand. 

“To be cruel,” She answers him, “To make me suffer.” Sylvanas hisses, baring her teeth again. No wonder she is angry. 

He stands in silence a few moments more, his brows drawing in, pain mingling with anger and resentment, regret that he has already failed so spectacularly at avenging these atrocities. “...what do you want me to do?” He asks. Because that is important. He could unwind the spells and crack open the tomb, but then what? It was not his place to decide what was best for her.

“I want my body back,” She answers immediately, “It is mine, and I will take it back, whatever has been done to it. Can you do this or not, little princeling? That’s how you can help me.” 

She covers her desperation with insults again, and Kael supposes it’s really not that different from how she was before. When she wasn't trapped by decorum, anyways. “Yes,” He says, “Of course. It will take time, though, may I alert my people?” 

Sylvanas’s eyes narrow on him mistrustfully, “No one else is allowed down here. No one else may know what Arthas was hiding here.” She responds, defensively. Can Kael’thas blame her? What leverage would this be? What would she do to have it returned to her? He realizes that as much trust he put in her coming down all this way, she has granted him maybe more. 

“I understand,” He soothes, “I want to ensure nobody disturbs us.” 

At last, Sylvanas nods. Kael summons the paper he needs, writes his note, and then folds it into a paper phoenix, murmuring the incantations. After a moment it flitted off, swiftly as a real bird. The banshee tracked it with her eyes in the darkness, but didn’t stop it. She crossed her arms over her chest and brought her gaze to Kael’thas as he got to work. 

It was not easy.

Some hours later, Kael’thas has gotten maybe a foot down the hallway, a few lines of spells finally flickering out, their threat gone, but only after much struggle. Runes, he knows, are one of the most primal forms of magic. Some sin’dorei considered them crude, clumsy, but Kael knew that they could be used with finesse, and were more powerful than most incantations or inscriptions because of it. The next time one of the magisters described them as a lesser form of magic, Kael was going to drag them into these caverns himself. 

He finally sat, knowing that the ground was sticky with blood, but there is no helping it, starting to draw inscriptions of his own. While Sylvanas had affected disinterest at first, she has been drifting closer, her red eyes looking over the runes and spells that have thus far prevented her own reclaiming of the body. She raises her eyebrows as he sits, seeming surprised that he’d consider it despite the filth. 

The area lights up with the golden light of Kael’s own spell, and a few more lines of the traps around the coffin fade. His brow is beading with sweat despite the relative chill of the air. He thinks of the last time he did something similar, surrounded by other mages in Dalaran. He’d had help, conversation, food and drink nearby, better conditions, and a lot more sleep. 

He decides to pause a moment as another one of the unholy spells dies, leaning back a little, his arm going around his middle as his ribs twinge. No doubt his injuries from Northrend are less than happy with his efforts but there’s no helping it. He can rest when everyone else is safe and able to rest as well. 

“I’ll summon your healer,” 

Kael actually jerks at the sound of Sylvanas’s voice. She’s looking at him with decided disapproval now. He looks at her incredulously. “I do not need a healer,” He sniffs, returning to his spell, “I merely needed a moment’s rest. Magic takes effort, you know, whatever you believed before.” 

“It wasn’t a suggestion. You can’t be efficient if you are injured. Or tired. And despite whatever you believe, I know magic takes concentration and energy.” Sylvanas sneers back. It’s almost more normal, her mothering has always been layered in mockery and derision at Kael’thas’s spoiled and stubborn nature. The prince’s eyes go back a little, sulking despite himself.

“I’m not eating down here. I don’t care what anyone says,” The prince puts his foot down at this, but doesn’t protest the rest of it this time, which Sylvanas knows is as good of an agreement as she’ll be getting. When he glances over his shoulder at the falling silence, he realizes that Sylvanas has completely left, not a sign of red eyes or moving shadows in sight. It’s almost a relief. 

He wobbles to his feet so his people don’t see him looking run down and exhausted; the last thing they need is to feel like everything is too much for him. It’s not. He can do this. 

He is not expecting the glare of two sets of red eyes in the darkness of the caverns. He tenses, his mind going to assassins and traps immediately, his earlier conversation with Sylvanas obviously still preying on his fears- but then relaxes when he realizes who it is. The youngest Crimsonsun, since having taken Fel, had developed this unusual eye color. The attendant seems unbothered by the darkness but is not exactly someone who would merit being called a “healer” by any stretch. Sylvanas is behind them, looking faintly annoyed, but she knew who this family was; they had been in service to the Sunstrider’s almost since Quel’thalas’ founding. She would know he wasn’t a healer necessarily but was at least helpful. She could have also easily told him “no”, and not gotten a peep of argument.

The younger Sin’dorei looks around at the runes and spells and lastly the casket in the cavern. But these people have not been the shadows of royalty for so long by not having restraint or by being horrible gossips. Kael already finds himself relaxing, knowing that his settings and state will not reach public knowledge. They blink once, then speak, “I would like to clean the blood off the floor if it would not disturb your work,” He says mildly. 

And Kael is struck with the knowledge that up until a few weeks ago, these were people who, while certainly capable of being a last line of defense for royalty, were largely cleaning up after them, not venturing into combat. They tested food for poisons, and quelled salacious rumors, ferried messages, and babysat wild youth. “I- yes. Go ahead. It will not.” 

It is a few whispered words only, and Kael hears the rattle and scrape of bone that already has the hair on the back of his neck rising. He cannot forget the state of Silvermoon or its forests upon his first arrival in it after the attack; the sound of clattering bones will never quite remind him of mischievous cats and overflowing component closets so much as it will horrors lurking in the darkness. 

But the bones merely stack themselves in eyesight, and an orb of blood congeals nearby to it, all other trash coming to a pile off in the distance. Sylvanas eyes this all with wariness and suspicion, clearly defensive of the area. Kael hopes the attendant is cautious enough to not incur her ire. Still, the attendant’s actions are smart, clearly somewhat knowledgeable on how to dispell something- the very blood and bones which had writ the spell would be useful in undoing it too. He shamefully can’t remember if the man had assisted him in Dalaran or Silvermoon, or both. 

The demon-blooded elf then moves to check over Kael. He asks to look over him, and Kael declines again- rote, practiced- when has he ever accepted this since they left his Kingdom? Sylvanas looks at him sharply when he does, and Crimsonsun pauses, waiting to see if Kael’s answer will change. He remains silent and meets the younger elf’s eye with what he hopes is a stern expression. And then he is left with potions, a water skin and neatly wrapped paper packages. Crimsonsun just bowed and retreated with no further explanation, clearly getting the gist that his presence was tolerated only by either party. 

Sylvanas sighed, long, when the elf disappeared wholly into the darkness. Kael, disgruntled, did manage to down a potion before the banshee could snarl something derisive at him, probably about wasting her time, and then drank water in the hopes of getting rid of the taste. He unwrapped a little of the package, finding food within, and pauses. How long had he been down here? He hadn’t eaten today at all. And here, the elf who’s name he didn’t really remember had remembered to bring him food. Now it’s his turn to sigh, a little miserably, and he runs his hand over his face. 

He can’t linger over everything; the people he’s jeopardized or abandoned by his careless actions. He just can’t allow himself to keep failing them. 

Feeling more steady, he settled back into his spell circle, feeling Sylvanas’s eyes on him as he empowered the spell again. Golden magic, beginning to flicker with the other colors of phoenix fire, begins to suffuse the cavern, slowly but surely overtaking the necromantic and cursed seals. It is slow progress, but it is visible progress, golden light threading through the eerie cyan of the other curses, slowly drowning it out. 

This time when Sylvanas speaks, he manages not to start. But he wasn’t expecting her to extend the olive branch and ask him questions first again; really it should’ve been his responsibility at this point. 

“Why, exactly, does the little Crimsonblood reek of Fel?” She asks, drifting closer now that many of the earlier spells are undone. Kael cannot risk a glance at her and break his focus, but he still frowns. “He-“

“And what,” she drawls- she’s one of the few people who is allowed to interrupt him, really, and she does so frequently and with relish, “Has pushed you this far, that you’ll pass out in some dark cave just for my… what? Forgiveness? Approval?” 

Kael’s frown deepens more, and his magic fluxes, rippling through the carvings like disturbed water, casting glimmers of cerulean and gold. Sylvanas’s eyes flicker to it, then back to him, circling around so she stands in front of him, between the mage and the casket. It’s a bit of a risky position, but he is seated again, and he distantly wonders what spellwork would even affect her. Could she just become translucent and ephemeral again? Right now she seems almost solid, shadows coalescing into familiar shapes and features that have weight, light gleaming convincingly off the armor. Or maybe the armor is real? 

For a moment, the golden light flickers out entirely, and Sylvanas’s ears pin back, her eyes narrowing on him suspiciously, the darkness around her gathering. Carefully, he brings the spell back to full power, “...Sorry.” He says quietly, and nothing much else. The apology should be enough, especially coming from him. 

Sylvanas stares at him blandly for a moment, then steps to the side, looking at one of the stalagmites rising from the floor. It, too, has been defaced, though the runes are now dead from Kael’s careful unraveling of their magic. 

“There’s… a lot to tell. And I want to,” He says weakly, now keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling, where he grapples with one of the main lines, the abhorrent magic fighting him every step of the way. 

“Oh, I know this one. But you’re busy right now. Didn’t you get enough of that line from your father?” Sylvanas says coldly. Kael flinches, and the light flickers again. Her bitterness is overflowing, her anger palpable now that he is looking for it. He doesn’t know how to calm her now... and he realizes he never did before. It was just probably before, he was the Prince and she was… not that. Here, in Lordaeron, she had begun to build something, something that wasn’t Quel’thalas and its entanglements of petty politics. She’d just won a whole war from the looks of things. 

“I did,” He agrees quietly, “...but I’m not too busy to listen. And when you have your body back, I can tell my side of things too. It’s a promise,” The prince offers, risking a glance at her turned back. 

Sylvanas has turned a little to look at him, still obviously mistrustful, but something in her expression shifting and softening. Kael wondered how much both of them had wanted to hear that sort of answer from Anastaerian, even just once. “...Alright,” She says after a pronounced silence. Kael straightened, his magic brightening slightly though he tried to not look too eager. While he was grateful that Sylvanas was trusting him again, he already knew one thing: this was not going to be a happy story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A most unhappy tale.

The ice cracks and groans behind them as the scourge horde turns over itself, folding and retreating before the flare and blaze of the distant runestones, each flickering to life on the beach. Sylvanas is barely aware of own grief, surroundings or actions in comparison to Arthas’s rage and humiliation and _pain pain pain pain pain_ because while all his servants were cursed to undeath, prior to this, Arthas was just cursed. So now Sylvanas must bear the brunt of his agony; the sharp agony of his missing eye and now the even hotter flare of the King’s last vengeance. And Arthas’s wrath is a choking tether that allows Sylvanas no other option but to follow him back. 

By the time they have cut through the still-burning woodlands, Sylvanas’s dim awareness has registered that she is still being goaded into enemies; vengeful shadows that cut through the unliving ranks and yet vanish like smoke when she or her banshees are brought to the forefront. Arthas cannot field them everywhere at once, their ranks are too disorganized, and so their foes carve away at ghoul and gheist, picking off the weakest of the undead with calculated ease. They risk no direct confrontation, but they do not allow Arthas to stop and regroup. 

At some point, Sylvanas realizes that they are her own rangers, and nearly weeps again. And yet her sorrow has been weaponized; for each time despair overwhelms her, her master sends her into the eaves of the wood to slay those she mourns and fears for. She is not allowed to be sorrowful; and yet her anger and torment are treated only with amusement by the warped shell of a man that was Arthas. It is all she is allowed to feel without being turned upon her family and loved ones, so she allows herself _that_ as freely as she is able. 

As they travel, great swathes of her memory are left behind with whatever corpses litter the trail; the more she resists destroying her Farstriders (and they are _hers_ and Arthas will _never_ take that from her), the less control she is given. 

And yet still, she comes to one foggy night, drifting on the ruined parapets of Lordaeron, staring out over the bleak landscape… and there in the shadows of the trees, green and blue eyes stare back. Sylvanas waits for her awareness to be torn from her like so many cobwebs again… and nothing happens. The eyes move closer, coalescing into cloaked figures, stealing closer and staring back at her unabashedly. Sylvanas doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare think. Holds perfectly still, in the disbelieving hope that Arthas’s attention will not notice the elves examining Sylvanas and the broken wall both. 

They pass below her, through a small maze of broken cinderblocks, though the punctured outer wall. When they pass through the barrier a few turns, pausing, looking back at their frozen commander on the ramparts. Here now, she feels the passing attention of Arthas, and she bares her teeth in a furious warning snarl. By the time the Prince has taken control of her again, there is no sign of the Farstriders passing into the city at all… and oddly, Arthas delves no deeper into her thoughts, doesn’t even realize that she’s seen them. That she’s hiding something from him. Sylvanas feels the cold mind pull from hers, and her eyes flicker and blaze in a sudden expression of unhinged glee. 

Arthas… is weakening. 

Sylvanas carries the news to her Banshees without much thought of it. Some of them, even, have noticed. But she is more perceptive and powerful at this moment. She is different from them, in a way. The first. The strongest. 

The others are ghostly, ethereal, almost beautiful at first glance. They are the ghosts Sylvanas was accustomed to glimpsing in the long-forgotten ruins of Dath’remar’s unsuccessful attempts at Kingdoms; they glimmer and gleam like moonlight. It is only when they turn to look at you, that the terrifying truth is made evident; beautiful elvish faces have been stripped down to cadaver-like appearances; like luminous mummified flesh pulled too taut over unseeable bones, black pits that blaze with pinpricks of crimson light. Mouths that open too wide, fingers too long and claw like. They are translucent, barely corporeal things, like mist. Not like Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas whose shape is like a long shadow cast, and allowed to walk free, edged in necromancy Blazing and gleaming crimson in the eyes and blue where Frostmourne bit so deeply into her soul that even this form is damaged. Sylvanas who does not even have the first passing impression of beauty; she is a nightmare, all red and black and icy tones of Arthas’s new undead abominations; a unique monstrosity and mockery of her former prowess. She is powerful still; but all that softened her in life- her dedication, her quiet sorrow and strength of heart- has been made into a weapon now, and now that she has these moments to think about it, she very much wishes she did not. 

And yet this power is what sets her apart. Not just as the Banshee, but their leader still, their Ranger-General in death as in life. They settle around her like mist, only half-visible, and look as she does out over the landscape. They, collectively, do not look at the dark figures perched like so many crows in a crumbling tower. For a Banshee it would be a simple matter to fly over and finish the company off… but they do not. They do not want to. Sylvanas didn’t call them here just to confirm their suspicions, or to hunt these interlopers. 

Sylvanas wants revenge. Sylvanas wants to watch Arthas’s abhorrent kingdom crumble around him. Sylvanas wants to watch the light fade from _his_ eyes, to die slowly and suffering and helpless as _they all_ died. And the Banshees need very little other encouragement other than this. Ghosts of all sorts, regardless of the type, are bitter creatures as a rule. 

Sylvanas calls them to enact vengeance, and gladly they answer, dispersing into the darkness, out of Lordaeron. 

“Kill me,” He rasps, blue eye blazing despite the weakness in his body. 

Sylvanas looks at him, and a slow smile stretches over her features, sharp-fanged and terrible for its glee- “No,” She croons, “Suffer, Arthas, as I have suffered.” 

She is too blinded by that glee, too seeped in dark magic to feel the power that swells around her until it is far too late- another spirit. One who had equal measure to be embittered against Windrunner, one with greater power over death magic than she, certainly. 

Violent blue light exploded, tearing across the secluded clearing as Sylvanas shifted her blade to carve into the man who had tormented her. It threatened to rip her very being apart, and she recoiled with a snarling banshee scream of her own, putting distance between whatever had attacked her. 

“ _Run, Arthas!_ ” The voice was not familiar at all, but Sylvanas could see the shape of a cloaked man in the whorls of unholy power. One of her banshees sprang at the shape, and it threw out a skeletal hand… and the banshee’s own light snuffed out with a terrible scream. 

“No!” Sylvanas cried- her desperation in two parts- for her lost sister… and she could indeed see the Prince staggering to his feet despite the drugs in his system. The mysterious creature stood between her and her victory, and she bared her teeth in a wild snarl again. But even as she gathered herself up, something threw itself clumsily at her, groaning and slavering. Another ghoul. And then another, and another and- 

Suddenly the little company of banshees was being swarmed from all sides, the ground writhing with undead even, tearing at the banshee’s wraith forms. 

“You did everything you could to restore me, young Prince. The least I can do is repay this in kind!” The towering stranger called, stretching out his hand and gathering magic up around him, ignoring the battle raging all around him.

“NO!!” Howled Sylvanas- but her voice had no effect to speak of on the spirit; Arthas flinched, but his form was being encircled by magic. _Teleportation magic_. 

“How dare you!” She shrieked- but it was too late. Arthas vanished, and the spirit met her charge with its power again, and now she had to root herself to the earth to avoid being brushed away; she could feel her anchored spirit’s tethers unwinding and uprooting. But in that moment, her desire for revenge was far stronger than her desire for peace. 

Locked in a battle of wills with the strange apparition, Sylvanas could neither help her sisters nor properly defend herself- her gambit against Arthas was going to end in her annihilation at the hands of this… thing! 

And yet, another sound shrieked through the air, cutting through the whorls of necromancy that were battering the trees, sinking deep into one of the ghouls that were dragging a banshee down. And then just a moment later- a hail followed, dark and deadly, pinning the ghouls. 

The man’s spirit straightened, turning from his intent focus on Sylvanas to deal with the interlopers- and was instantly attacked, bright swords cutting through his storm of vile magic, shining and gleaming even through the ichor that coated them. Another horn sounded, from the south, and another rain of arrows fell after it. The tide had turned a final time, sweeping in with the lost Farstriders of Quel’thalas. 

“It’s the mage, Kel’thuzad!” A voice called to her left- and a bright arrow streaked through the air. The apparition- apparently the disgraced archmage Kel’thuzad- barely managed to avoid it; now he was the one backing up. She could see the Lich fire of his eyes flickering between her and her suddenly bolstered forces, calculating, and somehow still unworried. He had achieved what he wanted from revealing himself; Arthas had gotten away safely. Even as suddenly as his form had convalesced, it was now dissipating like a storm spent of rain. 

Sylvanas snarled, leaping forwards now, but her shadows caught nothing but wisps of ghostly energy. However, as the apparition vanished, the ghouls that had suddenly risen to life from the ground all fell apart. The banshee came to a stop, letting her hands fall to her side, turning to look over the remnants of the battlefield, and then lastly turning to look behind her, at the cluster of elves and banshees. Behind them even was Lordaeron in flames, smoke rising as undoubtedly chaos reigned with the sudden absence of the Death Knight. But of course, the things vying to fill the vacuum were…. not much better. 

“General,” A voice addressed her, hesitantly, and Sylvanas’s blazing eyes fixed themselves on the speaker- one tired farstrider, her red hair and fine blue cloak stained gray-brown and black with ash and soot and blood, “Should we pursue the ghost, or return to the city?” 

Sylvanas now found herself, despite the rest of the events raging around her, considering the group of _living, breathing_ elves in front of her. They had shadows under their eyes, and she could smell the sluggish seep of blood from their wounds from here. Not one of them had really green or blue or teal cloaks anymore, but the lot of them each as mud and soot-stained every cobblestone and ugly barren patch of earth in this light-forsaken land. They were tired, and she idly mused that they would be so very easy to kill in this moment. 

And yet- they were tired and bleeding and injured… for what? Revenge most likely, against the man she hated more than she cared about anything else. That should be enough for her to allow them their _lives_. “If you want to hurt Arthas, I know where he’s gone,” Sylvanas says, keeping her hooded stare fixed on the Farstrider who had spoken. Something like confusion passes her exhausted features, to Sylvanas’s own bemusement. 

“So then we’re to hunt the Prince? Shall we leave some posted in the city to keep an eye on the Dreadlords?” The farstrider asks tentatively, and Sylvanas sees her trying and failing to not keep looking at the city in flames behind the undead elf’s back. Sylvanas’s own eyes slit to a suspicious glare.

“What do you think you’re here for?” The Banshee turns the question back on the Farstrider; one of her own company, she remembers now, faces from what seems like a few millennia ago are rising to the surface of her mind’s eye. The woman blinks her silvery eyes, and her ears go back a little uncertainly. 

“My lady, we came for you and our sisters.” 

At those words, Sylvanas at first coils into tension… but something about the expression and the delivery is wrong for one who is announcing their intention to hunt and kill the Banshee and her entourage, so then- what-

“We weren’t just going to leave you in the hands of that man. When we saw that he was holding you against your will and that some of the undead he let go on the beach recovered their minds, we realized we couldn’t just let him take you.” The Farstrider’s wide eyes are taking in Sylvanas’s own expression; the banshee has half bared her teeth in confusion and defensiveness. She can only imagine what she must look like; because the next words are soft and soothing, as though delivered to a snarling and trapped lynx, “We are here to help you, Lady Windrunner.” 

A few of the banshees are moving closer to the rangers; she can palpably feel their longing. Not to kill, not to take- but to remember, to know again these people who they not-so-long-ago fought and died beside. Something fearful and harsh in her chest relinquishes its grasp for a moment as the words and actions settle into place instead. These are… her rangers. They were here for her, to help her. She had not been left to suffer alone in this landscape. 

“Just give the word, General. We’ll go wherever you lead us.” Another chimed in, seeming to catch on to what reassurances need to be uttered. A few more voices chime in, tired, hoarse, and determined. 

Sylvanas is struggling for composure and reigning in the emotion that threatens to well up, brimming with power. Her banshees have already sensed the change and settled in with the living rangers, who make room for them where they’ve always stood and clustered, with no complaints. 

Sylvanas doesn't know what to say and says nothing for a moment. She finds herself suddenly grasping for who she was to these people before; the easy grace and self-confidence that has been so violently stripped from her. Her eyes narrow at this thought, traveling over the equally bodiless banshees. They are in a worse state than she is, and the Rangers themselves are exhausted. She needs to get her act together before the demons find them. They need a plan. 

“Then come,” She says, her ethereal voice gaining strength, and the rangers each straightening to attention at the tone of it, “There is much work to be done to secure our victory here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not die! I am just unexpectedly moving. You can always catch me on twitter at https://twitter.com/sheikahbird for updates ✨

Kael’thas had listened, desperately trying to keep his focus enough on the spell so that it did not slow. And here, as Sylvanas paused thoughtfully, the younger prince stood, making his way to the undulating orb of congealed blood. Sylvanas’s eyes focused back on him. 

“Do you even know what to do with that?” She asks skeptically, clearly deflecting now from any questions he might have about what she has said so far. Kael’thas’s lips purse into a distracted, but decidedly displeased expression at both the question and the reason for it. 

He lets his actions speak louder. With perhaps a more dramatic sweep of his hand than strictly necessary, the blood had begun to move again, out of the shape it had been neatly contained in, thin rivulets that followed a different path through the maze of curses and protections, circling around, over and under like fibers might be woven to eventually form cloth. 

“So, Kel’thuzad?” He says, not looking directly at Sylvanas, carefully channeling the blood where it needs to go. The Banshee’s eyes are on the blood magic anyways, her expression totally unreadable for a moment, before she slowly looks to him, then back at the magic, and then back to him. He gets the feeling she is figuring something out about him that she’d misjudged. It wasn’t as though this particular skill was something he wanted to advertise, and it certainly wasn’t something the posh quel’dorei court would’ve encouraged. They probably would’ve been scandalized. 

“You knew him,” Sylvanas states flatly. 

“He was on the Council of Six for a time,” Kael’thas responded, “...but he was forbidden from his studies, and afterward left. I’m sure you can imagine what those studies were?” The prince’s voice is dry. He’s too focused on unwinding the last locks on Sylvanas’s casket to think about the what-ifs. 

“And you never saw fit to mention it to Quel’thalas?” Sylvanas snapped; she wasn’t quite so focused, apparently. 

But Kael still flinched a little, “I did,” he said quietly, “In the letters I wrote to my father.” Sweat beaded his brow; even if Sylvanas had not mentioned the man in her retelling, Kael would’ve recognized this particular handiwork. He’d undone a previous incarnation when going through Kel’thuzad’s personal affects to destroy them. They were skillful and powerful both; it was taking the last vestiges of his strength to forcefully destroy them; they were beyond his cunning to unwind by intellect. 

Sylvanas let herself stew at that response. Her thoughts and memories of Anaesterian were tangled; a benevolent matronly figure who was as distant and cold and untouchable as the moon’s bright eye to her, soft-spoken and callous all at once, seemingly capable of no warmth and yet wielded some infernos as others did quill or paintbrush; with all the passion and love of an artist for their craft. But never towards his family, somehow. Not towards Kael’thas, not towards her, and not towards his people. And yet on the beach… 

Before her dark thoughts can drag her down more, there is a sudden flare of gold and red, brightening the cave, glimmering dazzlingly over surfaces that had, a moment ago, seemed to be seeped in eternal shadow. The air lightens, warms slightly, the suffocating silence lifts so she can hear the steady drip-drip-drip of the ice thawing off of her coffin and from the walls of the cavern. 

Kael’thas sags, despite his earlier bravado, and Sylvanas catches him somewhat absently with a tendril of shadow until the man props himself on a stalagmite, breathing heavily. She can feel the tang of death, a pale echo of her own brush with Frostmourne, the injuries which could easily be aggravated to drag him back onto the thresh-hold of death. She does none of these things, out of kindness. 

“You’ve done well, princeling,” She says, moving past him, to the center of the room. His laugh is breathless and a little insulted. “You’re dismissed,” The banshee says with a flick of her claws, as though she’s the royalty and he is the servant, knowing well it’ll raise his hackles. Her chest aches too much at the memories he’s forcing her to walk through, and she’s done with him for the moment. 

“I’m-?!” His outrage is almost laugh-worthy, she can practically see the man starting to puff up like an indignant hawkstrider. But as he straightens, he must irritate an injury because he suddenly flinches again with a sharp inhale. The prince quietly reflected that maybe, possibly, he overdid it, even with a steady supply of food and potions for this last bit of spellwork. Well. 

He does his best not to wheeze like he’s dying, because he’s fine, really. But Sylvanas has paused, her red eyes narrowing impatiently at him, and between his injury and the extreme lack of desire to see how she intends to get her body back, Kael’thas gingerly straightens. “I will await you in the city above… do not think our conversation is over, Ranger-General,” He tells her formally, clearly obviously insulted. She doesn’t waste the effort to respond, so he doesn’t bother to stick around either, heading back up the winding hallways and staircases into the grey light of Lordaeron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may also be a pause between this part and the next as I make sure that I've got all my plot points neat and tidy. We're halfway through the first arc!


End file.
